The Girl with Three Legs: Salvaged Woman

By Louise Yetunde

TGW3L embarks on a journey through the life of a 25-year-old Nigerian-American trans woman. While that may be essential and bold alone, just as such are her experiences of internal anguish, ostracization from peers, cycles of abuse, jail time, hospitalization; as well as the expected niceties of wealth, self-discovery, the pursuit of fame, and little glimmers of success and hope. The intersections of her demography with her own individual experiences & insights, combined with a varyingly theatrical yet honest tone and delivery, create a gripping and holistic story that will be sure to leave an inspiring and thoughtful lens for the reader to put on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669836650

Louise Yetunde

Louise Yetunde is an artist based out of New York, NY.

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Copyright © 2022 by Louise Yetunde.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ALL NAMES used on this book is fictionalized.

Rev. date: 07/06/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 God-Given

Chapter 2 Genesis

Chapter 3 Sing It Out

Chapter 4 Brainiac

Chapter 5 Birth of a Violent Man

Chapter 6 Interlude. Some Things I’d Unwittingly Left Out

Chapter 7 Diva Is Overused

Chapter 8 ’Seventeen, ’Eighteen

Chapter 9 Colpa Mia

Chapter 10 TCNJ

Chapter 11 Friends Who Guide You, Continued

Chapter 12 Blamethrowing Is Fun

Chapter 13 El El

Chapter 14 Where Do I Go From Here?

Chapter 15 Working It Out

Epilogue

Prologue

This book exists in multiple times in my life at once: I have written this book additively by updating different chapters at different points because at twenty-five—or twenty-two to twenty-five in the case of when each word was written— I am, as you might assume, still very much coming into my own. You can likely even tell that some passages were written sometimes many months or even years before or after the passages adjacent to them. This prologue for instance is one of the later additions to the book. I have looked at who I was at the start of writing this book through what she logged of herself and each year’s iteration of me since, and as of this moment I feel I have thankfully become less and less vain, yet more and more resolute in who I am and what I seek in life, and more and more honest with myself, less and less pitying of myself, and more and more compassionate to her. These are good things.

It is notable to me that I am writing a book because for years I would essentially journal to myself my thoughts and reflections on my life, though it was done mostly orally, rather than in writing. I seldom ever have written down my daily or lifelong reflections, not nearly as much as I have simply ruminated. I do have some voice memos of myself doing this and they have been teachable to me in their content and insight, but I can’t say that I have much in my figurative time capsule.

With that said, this book is so full of me—necessarily and proudly. It took me a long time to start reading it in full. I tend to cringe at my words as much as be impressed by them, and it’s hard to anticipate what will trigger or enthuse me—whether the honest expression of my personality and story will cause me to quiver (alongside the idiosyncratic interpretations of my life and life itself); or if the eloquence of my words and accuracy of pinpointing my memories, thoughts, and feelings will empower me; or whether it will leave me feeling stripped. And, indeed, I’ll admit I have trouble reading full bodies of work, so it’s somewhat rare that I continually read a text this long. But what I know is that all throughout, I am trying to come to an analysis of myself—my nature, my life, my identity, my past, my present, my future in reflection thereof. I am someone with a guilty past, but also one plagued by rejection, alienation, isolation, and forfeiture, as well as a desire to make oneself known, respected, and societally valued, along with the subtler aspects of intersectional oppression and the inner trials of deep self-resentment. In reading it with full detachment—as if I were a newfound reader of my own life—I find a lot of preciousness in these words.

I had to look very deep into this memoir without excess rumination which, admittedly, I came close to in the first chapter. Vulnerability is something I may perform on impulse, but to truly let yourself be known—trusting that it is valuable regardless—is so difficult to pull off. This book is equal parts story, reflection, and diary. This is something I have been consciously wary of in writing it and, while I have taken time to revise it so the seriality of the book flows well, I also accept that I am not particularly organized and that this book functions partly as a nonfiction stream of consciousness bildungsroman—a book meant to highlight a woman like myself in the heat of life and in reflection of her early and formative years, up to and through the start of her adulthood.

Much of this text was written while in quarantine due to the still present COVID-19 pandemic which has made the drafting period a ripe one for reflection and revision. Not only that, it was also written as I was grieving a period in my artistic career that seemed very prosperous and foundational; in which I felt myself rising in my community as a cult favorite. This was a period sandwiched by suspension from my college on October 17, 2017, and voluntary deletion of my social media accounts on January 16, 2019; the latter of which, while petty-sounding, almost felt like a forfeit of my capital as they were my primary means of influence, as well as my connection to the hundreds upon hundreds of people I met with professional intention during my teen and college years (and that fifteen-month period afterward). I was someone that many, including myself, had anticipated would become a star. Many others just found me a peculiar local figure. But many others had full faith that something big would become of me in my twenties: I was smart, I was insightful, I was compassionate, and I was often ingeniously creative; namely, when it came to writing avant-garde pop songs and bringing an intense and unrelenting energy to the stage and to other people’s lives. Or was I? As I look back, I can’t help but think that some of that was in my head, composed mostly of never fully materialized dreams of success as an artistic icon and sociopolitical voice. But I know that there was potential because there was a music and arts community that really took well to me and really wanted me to go the distance. And knowing better of myself now, being more secure in myself now, I honestly imagine that a lot of them were just patiently waiting on me as I took my time, so it’s a mixed bag.

There was and is also a dark side to me, though. I’ve thrown myself, thrown things, smashed things, slapped people, blamed people, laughed at others’ expense (in the most minimal ways that are still objectionable), and I have devalued myself in a vicious circle of it all, manifesting as unremitting self-hatred and periodic contempt. The greatest mistake I’ve ever performed has been not granting myself the self-respect and faith to respect others unremittingly, and to trust them enough as not to invoke their enmity. Until very recently I lived in fear of myself, and I initially said that through this memoir, I believe I can outlive that fear, but, honestly, it’s more living with faith and fortitude that has bought me self-belief and patience than anything simple rumination and reflection could offer me.

On top of these, after being nixed from my college while traumatized and having to make it on my own, I leaned further into different perspectives and counter-perspectives in terms of my own personal schools of thought. As I became more privy to the American conservative perspective, which integrates perspectives that simply herald a more quintessential and simplified life built on tradition, religious faith, and often basic tendencies of human expectation, more and more I began to lose key connection with a lot of my peers on an intellectual and ideological level. And in this I had found great purpose and, honestly, great reassurance rather than fear. I had hoped to be a voice for middle America, as well as coastal America, but I was clearly overzealous in many ways and also very egotistical. Alongside this, I was someone prone to borderline-type rage episodes that would be a frequent burner of bridges, especially in my entry into adulthood, as well as my adolescence, so I was a bit of a rebel heart not always in the most productive of ways. I’ve been called a contrarian in the past, and I own that as one of my past flaws. One thing I will say, though, is that most people on the American right just seem to me to be overwhelmed by ways of life that don’t concur with their simple vision of how life should go and, conversely, disillusioned by the ideals placed around diversity, equality, sexual liberation, and communism. I think that that deserves sympathy but it warrants cold scrutiny too.

I will admit that this book started out partly as an attempt to get people on my side and, on a greater level, to at the very least understand the genesis of me and my flaws, strengths, aversions, and interests. As a trans person in her midtwenties who began her transition years before this book was written (arguably the most interesting and visually striking part of the trans experience) and one whose opportunities for worldly success may have seemed to dwindle, I felt it was worthwhile giving my frustration and resilience an outlet to be semiorganized and heard. That I have in the past often made that outlet texts to friends, and have often been one to explain myself rather calligraphically even in everyday speech, made it fairly instinctive as well to write profusely enough to make a memoir.

I don’t expect to make the world love me with this book, but I have high hopes to bring people to a deeper sense of what a person and their story can be. I know I needed that when I was younger; I still need it. So knowing that I can be a light to whoever might be out there that is like me, it brings me a real sense of hope for myself. All I want is to bring people to feel, love, and wonder. I think it is the essence of life. That’s my main mission.

But I think that, mainly, I’d like to understand myself more.

Lastly, I want to make an addendum that clarifies how my gender status is something that is, in my current opinion, open-ended. Throughout my book, I reference my experience as a transgender woman. The book’s title is in direct, evocative reference to that journey. I began transitioning hormonally in 2016, and it was a grueling and very gradual yet very conscious decision, and since then I have felt sensually embodied in ways I had never felt prior to transition, unless trying my best to feminize my features, which was only minimally possible. (One time I even shaved my eyebrows thin.) Since then I have explored many radfem groups online that seek to abolish the systems in place that allow people like me to modify our physical appearances in order to feel at home in our bodies. These forums generally vilify trans women and less so trans men; more so pitying trans men, while marking them all as victims of a patriarchal medical scheme to sterilize mentally ill people and make them dependent on doctors’ care. I have found their points intriguing and at times sympathetic, and indeed I am critical of the desire to de-gender society but I have found them immovable when I have spoken to them about my own struggles and concerns and those of other trans people; of how it is something desired based on deeply felt and experienced truths of identity and sex to transition one’s body phenotypically so it resembles that of the opposite sex, and how gender, as an external social function, is something that is both expressed by us psychologically and placed on us societally and not necessarily a hard truth of how one was outwardly born. These sorts of feminists have been deemed trans-exclusionary radical feminists or terfs, most notably being shone light on when Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling, who had in decades past and on discussed disadvantages she had faced for being female (down to concerns that her legal name Joanne Rowling would lead to less readers), repeatedly discussed valid concerns that sex as a concept was being erased and extinguished by gender- radical activists and their disciples. Joanne, who has now been chastised viciously by both the religious right and the anarcho-communist left, to me still seems a force for good. In fact, I published two YouTube videos regarding the controversy around her that highlighted her concerns and good faith. Having read, listened to, and interacted with so much of the discourse and media produced by the gender-critical radfem community, including the likes of Vanessa Vokey, Sierra D. Weir (also known as Exulansic), Kellie Jay-Keen Minshull (Posie Parker), and Prof. Kathleen Stock OBE, as well as the likes of self-documenting detransitioners and curious Blanchard acolytes like Rod Fleming—all of whom I came across on YouTube, I have opened myself to the premise of eventually detransitioning, as I know acceptingly that my body will never fully be that of a cisgender or non-trans-experienced female. But I highly doubt that I would actually undergo such a reversal because living outwardly as a woman to the best of my body’s ability has been such an affirming, gratifying, and empowering gift for me. Even if it comes with its own new share of social burdens and risks, I feel so much more comfortable in my own skin than I did before I transitioned; the main concerns of self-consciousness arising from anxiety over certain masculine features that I possess primarily as a result of male puberty. Transition has been the gift of a lifetime for a girl like me, and I know that I will never fully be resolved as a female because I am male, but at least I am able to live in a body that feels like my own again and not that of a beast staring back at me that only began to manifest during adolescence.

Overall, I hope that this book brings us, reader and me, to a deeper insight into our common humanity and our absurdness of existence in a world that expects us to live right and tidily, whether we wish to and whether we simply even can. I hope that this book reads like a prayer and plea for those blessed as I am to be heard and to be granted love as they want and deserve. It took me a whole tome to get through and maybe I still struggle (in fact, I know I do), but I do deserve kinship and mutual respect in this life.

God as my witness, God as my light . . . those around me as my arbor and garden.

Lastly, the working title of this book was Salvaged Woman . . . I changed it to its current title, The Girl With Three Legs, because it more salaciously conveys the freak I often believe myself to be. There’s a third leg covertly sprouting from most of us, after all. Namely, if we look hard enough. I hope it all translates.

Special thanks goes by the way to a friend of mine who was close to me while I attended The College of New Jersey, Robin (referenced briefly in the book as Aiden), who encouraged me repeatedly to write a memoir, and to which I eventually took the heed of as a means of self- catharsis and care. Thank you for always believing in me, even more than I knew I could.

Chapter 1

God-Given

Distiller of pain, at war with shame . . .

for now, doing the best I can.

That’s what my Instagram bio says currently (July 2019). And it’s true; I take my pain and at least attempt to make it meaningful . . . and my greatest enemy is not my past nor my habits but my shame. Who I am at my worst . . . it’s all spawn to the shame I harbor about myself, isn’t it?

So, I came back to this draft, finally, after a few months’ silence. I’ve learned a lot about myself. And I think I can be summarized by a few phrases. Here goes:

It’s hard to be you when you find yourself unnerving.

It’s hard to be you when there’s so much at stake.

Beauty might not be skin deep; it lives right under the masculinized skin.

I lost it all and found myself for the first time in a way that seemed honest.

(Well, at least, by this year’s standard.)

Now, of course, there’s more to me than mantras of insecurity. I’m very conscious of my role in this world. I’ve been a songwriter. I’ve been a painter. I’ve been an artiste. I’ve been a singer, a pianist, a guitarist, a poet, an aspiring actor and model; you know, the star qualifications that every female that idolizes the entertainment industry want to be. And I live for it. I’m not a bad public speaker, either. And as you can infer from here, I diarize, as well. These are nothing without who I am when I’m not working: I am playful, I am willing to help, I am an ear for a friend to confide in, and I am naturally quite confessional myself. The charisma people have found in me has gotten me far, as well as provided foundation for a good share of others’ disappointment when they found more underneath. I am a twentysomething-year-old woman (my therapist calls me twenty-nothing, as perhaps I’m not that old) who is insightful, curious, creative, ambitious, and kind. And I guess a bit sassy too when it’s fitting to be. But, yes, I tend to put myself always on the clock; I was never that meticulous at scheduling.

But why the angst then? Well, I guess I’m a bit weary and a bit inquisitive. Life can have its share. Granted, I’ve always been somewhat angsty; at least, since about sixth or seventh grade. Age twelve or so, that’s when I started to turn a bit darker and inward. I started to have these moments of rage and these moments of standoffishness; most found me rather kind. But, of course, I’ve been an angel and a devil. I remember the day that I came to class and threw down a project I was working on with friends and it hit my friend’s eye. She never forgave me directly for that and, you know, I don’t blame her. I’ve been the golden child, and I’ve been the one disowned. Friend or foe, there’s a good chance that in the past year I’ve thought about you. And, admittedly, I don’t perceive myself as having any foes, or at least many foes — at least, from my vantage toward them. There aren’t many people I see as beneath or against me. Though I’ve burned bridges, for sure. And, I suppose, when I’m in a resentful or wrathful state of mind, I can perceive those with me as actually against me; that’s just how it goes.

Most of my friends, new or old, know that I have multiple sides to me, and most know that I’ve done strong work to make the most of myself; to make myself better than last week. Most also know that at times I’ve failed at that at some points, namely a couple years back, rather deleteriously. I have been a public speaker; I’ve been a prisoner in a cell. I’ve been a psych student; I’ve been hospitalized. I’ve been a friend of my college; I’ve been a pariah. I’ve played piano for my college’s jazz ensemble; I’ve been denied the major I needed to make college sensible for me. Love, loss, potential for fame, potential for reclusion . . . they’ve all been in my life. Much of it occurred in one year. That year was 2018 and I look back on it fondly, but there is a lot that perhaps I’d like history and consequence to forget.

Maybe I’m a narcissist. Well, sort of. I dunno. We all have hearts. It’s a fear of mine. To be a narcissist is to be incapable of giving genuine affection or love, namely because one is so engrossed in their own defenses and self-concept as being somewhat potentially good. The disorder often sprouts either from overly coddling and sugarcoating a child’s life from youth or from a childhood lathered in exploitation, abuse, devaluation, and other miscellaneous trauma. My parents were (funny, I said were; we’re cool now) very loving and very honest, so I guess it’s not that. Narcissism is to be mired too much in one’s own disposition to give oneself away to another’s own. I’ve surely been there, but I’ve also possessed great empathy and capacity to console. I remember in my first semester of college, I felt so grateful that a friend of mine, who I had only met the April before, felt comfortable confiding in me about her relationship ending. And a couple of years later, a major band based in New Jersey that was getting big on the East Coast broke up, and the lead members of the band—the two of whom were suffering a terrible and messy breakup that sprouted over one band member cheating and the other being neglected and belittled (no, it was not the female one)—trusted me with personal details about it before it happened and well after too. People trusted me. People confided in me. I was that type of person to them. And in some ways, I still am.

Yeah. That hasn’t changed. It’s just that a few or several dozen (maybe a dozen dozen) have distanced themselves from me, which I get, as well as lament, as they probably do to an extent too. I mean, I could probably give it up—that I knew all of these people